


Roadtrip

by jamespadfoot



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: CS AU, Colleagues - Freeform, Fake Marriage, Road Trips, cs fake marriage, mentions of creepy swanfire relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamespadfoot/pseuds/jamespadfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma and Killian are colleagues, summoned to a client conference meet a ways away. Killian cajoles her into a roadtrip, claiming they have too much unused leave anyway, and "what’s life without a little adventure, swan?" … except, nothing goes as planned, because his car breaks down at this town called Storybrooke, and the only B&B with only one room available only admits married couples, and well… when in rome…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Start

_There’s a little B &B by Main Street’_ the sheriff had told them, when their car had broken down on the outskirts of some bum town called Storybrooke. 

(His colleague has since bitched at him non-stop about his  ~~brilliant~~   ~~dumb ass~~ idea at driving down to the client conference rather than flying, but despite recent events, or perhaps because of it, he is rather enjoying his time with the elusive Emma Swan)

What the sheriff had neglected to tell them, however, was that the B&B only accepted married couples or single travellers - and they were all booked out. 

“Really?” Emma asked, disbelief in her features as she looked around critically. 

“Yes, really. Are you really married, then?” the old lady at the reception asked, pining Emma with a penetrative gaze. 

In what Killian would later dub  _the-best-sleight-of-hand-ever,_ Emma held up her left hand, adorned with a gold band that usually sat on her right. Some family heirloom thing, though he hadn’t actually gotten a chance to ask. 

“Right, we accept cash only, there is an ATM outside of DeadStar Convenience, one row down from here. Your room is facing the main street, under whose name will I be billing this under?” 

“Mine,” Killian said, stepping forward and retrieving the deposit as Emma muttered under her breath, “DeadStar, jesus what a cheery name.” 

“Right then, Mr and Mrs. Jones, enjoy your stay.”

* * * 

“Two days?! Are you shitting me?” 

“Hush, Swan, someone might hear.”

“Oh my god, who cares, Killian, we need to be in Brunswick on Thursday!” 

“And today is Tuesday, it’s not like we didn’t already plan to stop,” he says with roll of his eyes. 

“Yeah, that was when we were making pitstops  _along the way_ , not  _stranded_  in a place that doesn’t even have Starbucks!”

He sighed. “I should have known this was about coffee.” 

“This is about having to pretend to be a happily married couple in a backward town.”

The thing about Killian, is that he’s always known. She walked into the office, and he’d known she was special. She’d accepted his casual offer for coffee, and he knew he could love her. She’d had dinner with him one night, after long hours and difficult clients, just a casual affair between coworkers, and he knew she was the only one he could marry. She’d cried on his shoulder once, a glimpse of her insecurities in the face of a client from hell with history with her, and he’d been torn between wanting to push the man from their 58th story office, and securing her tightly in his arms so she’d never hurt again - neither happened of course, she’d returned to prompt business within minutes, face a mask of efficiency. 

And it’s not like he hasn’t known the challenge (downright insanity, he can readily admit) that comes with loving Emma Swan. She’s as unyielding as the bloody sun, but just as bright and powerful and beautiful and fierce, and he’d wait for her forever, even if it only meant that he was her best friend. But he’s a little bit more pushy now too, because he knows he’s not throwing glass at a concrete wall, oh no, this thing between them, she feels it too, because no one kisses another human being like that without some kind of feeling behind it - and maybe it’s been 3 months since that alcohol tinged kiss that started as more of a flirty challenge never meant to yield results, but his lips are  _still_ tingling. 

But her words cut him now. Her contempt at having to pretend to be a couple, even though they haven’t so much as held hands (since she’d argued married people hardly show any affection anyway). 

“Yes, well, perhaps we’ll just act like we don’t know each other exists and if anyone asks you can say we’re fighting because you’re being a bitch.” 

“Excuse me?!” 

“What? Why is this a big deal, Emma? What the hell did I do, you’ve been mad at me ever since we got here. Would it kill you to enjoy the town, make the best of it while we’re here?”

“Yeah enjoy the town, while you call me a bitch.” 

“And I’m the bastard that made you drive down with me instead of flying, are you happy?” 

“No,” she snarls, and he throws his hands up in the air in defeat. 

“Fine. I’m going down to the bakery Granny recommended, you can sit here and stew all you like.”

* * * 

It’s an hour later when she joins him at the cleverly named  _Game of Scones_ which true to its name, serves absolutely delicious scones that could rival the bakery by the corner of his childhood home in London. 

“I’m stressed, and I took it out on you,” she says in lieu of a hello. It’s also the closest thing to an apology he’s about to get. 

“Why are you stressed?” He does a good job of keeping his voice neutral, not wanting her to know he’s forgiven her already ( _damnit, Jones_ ). 

She lets out a long sigh, collapsing into the seat in front of him. 

“Neal is suing me.” 

The name turns the taste of coffee in his mouth to ash. 

“What the fuck for?” 

She eyes his warily, but they’re friends, they’ve come a long way (today notwithstanding) and they know things about each other he’s certain no one else is privy to. He sees the moment she decides to trust him with this piece of her past.

“When I was 16,” she says quietly, eyes darting around as she moves forward into his space, “I had an abortion.”

His stomach drops, the confession warring with his very Catholic upbringing, and his respect for her choice and…did she just say 16?

“Sixteen?”

She gives him a sour look, “Yeah, yeah, stupid teenager who didn’t know how to use a condom.”

“No,” he says immediately, the flames of anger rising around him, “you misunderstand, I’m not judging you. But he’s the father right? And he’s five years your older, right?” 

“One, he was never going to be a father, of any kind, because he abandoned me before I even found out about the pregnancy, and two, yes, it’s technically statutory rape, but I gave my consent, Killian. That’s not quite the point.”

Killian laughs, in part to tame down the maniacal anger that makes him want to run to Neal’s home in New York and pulverize him, and partly because the guy is a fucking  _idiot._

“He wants to sue me for denying him his rights as a father, for not consulting him or whatever.”

“He can’t,” Killian grins at her, “not without implicating himself for having sex with a minor. Or the fact that you’ve got the Roe vs. Wade case as a huge precedence, Emma, he can’t win.”

“Are you sure? When did you learn so much about American law?”

“Haven’t you gotten a lawyer yet?”

“I spoke with a consultant, but I just got served, like ten minutes before we left. I haven’t had time to do much.”

“My sister-in-law is a lawyer. Not sure if this is her field of expertise, but she’ll know someone who is. Don’t worry Swan, I’ve got your back.”

A beat, and then, “How did he find out about it, anyway?”

Their afternoon is spent by dredging up history, surrounded by the dimly lit ambience of the cafe, and maybe, he falls in love with her just a bit more. 

* * * 

“I didn’t know you two were married,” the sheriff says sometime later, when they’re at dinner at the diner below Granny’s. 

He’s got a slight pout that makes Emma’s lips turn up, and Killian’s raise in challenge. 

“Happily married,” Killian says, putting his arm around her in an unmistakable claim, and every inch where their skin touches makes his head spin. 

“Oh, for how long?” the sheriff challenges, though his tone is polite and unthreatening. Still, Killian knows when another man is enroaching on someone else’s territory, as if the sheriff knows full well that the only reason they’re married is because of Granny’s rule. 

“Just a few months,” Emma chimes in, side-eyeing Killian with a  _what the fuck is wrong with you, can you chill_  expression. 

“Mmhmm,” he agrees, turning his head and planting a kiss to the side of her head in a fit of lunacy. 

Instead of an elbow to the ribs, or some other form of disentanglement, she melts into his side, resting her head on his arm. He almost forgets all about Graham as his arm tightens around her, pulling her closer into his body. 

“What about you?” Emma asks.

“Married to the job,” Graham grins at her, holding up his take-out bag as he bids them goodnight and wanders off into the night. 

He stills as the door closes, waiting for her reaction, but she remains firmly by his side, sending heat up and down his body as she swipes a fry and pickle of his plate. 

Eventually, he relaxes, and they stay that way until they retire. He doesn’t dare ask her about it, even as they turn down the bed and studiously avoid each other’s eyes. 

“Left or right?” she finally asks, breaking the silence. 

“What?”

“The bed. Which side?” 

“Oh. Well, I don’t have a preference love,” he says with a shrug, mentally completing the sentence with  _as long as I get to sleep beside you._

“Left side it is for you,” she says as she crawls under the covers, wearing thankfully, a long pair of sweats and a university t-shirt. He’s not sure he could handle her in shorts and a camisole, not sure he won’t end up with bruised face for staring at the creamy legs he knows hides under there, thanks to her penchant for dresses and skirts. 

“You sure you’re alright with this?”

“What’s not to be?”

“You’re right. Good night, Emma.”

“Good night, Killian.”

He turns away from her, leaving a respectable distance as he stares out into the open, hyper aware that he’s in the same bed as Emma Swan.


	2. The Beginning

 

The irritation refuses to dissipate, and he swipes, more than half asleep, at the ticklish thing by his nose. It’s when his fingers tangle in a mess of hair (that decidedly doesn’t belong to him), does the universe materialise in his consciousness - the hint of _some_ spice in her hair, the warmth length of her body against his, his _arms around her waist_ , one hand buried underneath their bodies in what will surely result in cramps later - he could care less, honestly, because this is one sure hell of a way to wake. 

 

Killian’s always been an early riser, having a brother in the British Navy would do that to you, but this. This is worth sleeping in for. He is loathe to move, and save for a slight shift in his hips, - a necessary caution given poking her awake would make _no one’s_ morning, Killian doesn’t budge an inch, ignoring the world and basking in being exactly where he wants to be. 

 

He doesn’t fall back into sleep, yet beneath his closed eyelids different visions of his future dances before him. The two of them, and a boy and a girl, and a dog, it’s cliche but by George, does he want it. Or maybe he’ll finally quit and become a freelancer - all their job needs is a good Wifi connection anyway - and buy a boat and sail the world with her by his side. Or maybe —

 

“Mmrngh,” she grunts softly, head turning into his chest as she burrows even closer into him. Killian stills, trying to even out his breathing because he knows there’s no way she’s not going to freak out. 

 

_‘One cricket,’_ he counts in his head, “ _two crickets, three crickets…”_

 

“Shit,” he hears, right on cue, as her entire body tenses. 

 

“Goddamn it, Emma,” she says, talking to herself in a harsh, low whisper, “ugh, why the fuck is he so comfortable though, fuck my life.” 

 

And then, to his utter, mind boggling amazement, she says, “fuck it,” so soft he barely hears it, and is tucked under his chin once more before he can even comprehend that she is _willingly_ snuggling into him. They’ve been in each other’s spaces before, of course, but nothing close to this. Nothing even remotely this intimate. 

 

He tries not to read into it - and promptly fails. 

 

Is this another step forward? 

 

At some point in his contemplation, he falls asleep too, because the next time he opens his eyes, she’s the one staring at him. A blush creeps up her cheeks at being caught, but she holds his gaze nevertheless, remarking lightly, “You look like a different person in sleep.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Younger, more relaxed. Or maybe it’s because your eyes are closed and I can’t see the sadness in them.” 

 

He’d been expecting something playful - not this heavy honesty. Emma too, must realize the weight of her words as she breaks their shared gaze, breathing deeply and twirling a lock of hair around her finger. 

 

“I could say the same of you,” he says, saving her from her comment with his own brand of honesty.

 

“You were watching me sleep?”

 

“I wake with the sun, Swan.”

 

Her raised eyebrow is question enough, and belatedly, he realises he’ll have to make a confession he didn’t intended to divulge. 

 

“I awoke earlier. I was far too comfortable to think of moving, and so I indulged in a little more repose.”

 

“Hmm,” is all she says, rolling away gracelessly onto her feet. 

 

“I’m hungry,” she announces, like the bloody queen, and he raises his eyes to hers, sure his expression must express his thoughts. 

 

“We need to get out of this one horse town,” she reminds him.

 

He’s not sure why he says it, it can be for no other reason that he’s forgotten himself in the relative early morning, this bedroom intimacy, the far removed environment they find themselves in… but he forgets himself, jealousy colouring his words when he says, “I don’t like the way Mr. Ozzborn stares at you, all creepily and then pays us the least amount of money he can get away with.”

 

The look she gives him tells him immediately that he’s overshared. 

 

“Walsh? He’s just…an intense cheapskate. We’re not there for him anyway, the plan is to cinch Mills Fashion.”

 

“Yes, yes.”

 

“Get your head in the game, Jones. Now I need food, so you either come or you don’t.”

 

* *  *

 

It’s a game of tug-o-war, he thinks, as he watches her sip her second cup of coffee while cutting her pancake into neat squares. He is eating muesli and yogurt, and she’s already made fun of him twice. By that reckoning, she’s got another barb to go before she’s on her daily average. 

 

Everything is a push and pull. The attraction, the intensity, the possibility of something _more,_ something _permanent_ lingers and simmers around them, and he knows it’s just a matter of time. They’re both career driven, both cautious at being hurt by past loves, both content (for now) to play this game of cat and mouse.

 

But they’re also handling big accounts now… Nolan Media’s current owners love them, Killian knows they’re about to be given shares and be promoted to directors… and if anything, this trip seems like a perfect opportunity to pull the rope a little more into his turf. 

 

“I feel human again,” she says, after a finishing, having eaten their breakfast in a comfortable silence. 

 

“As opposed to?”

 

“A dragon,” she says, without missing a beat. 

 

“Been watching Game of Thrones again, have you?”

 

“Oh please, I’ve been a dragon rider since Pern. I love Dany but she’s got nothing on Sansa.” 

 

“Sansa?” he questions, surprised by her choice. 

 

Emma picks up her fork, only to smack it down again, shoulders tensing as if she’s going to pitch her next big budget media campaign. He may be known as the ‘Pirate Ad King’ but she’s known far and wide as the ‘Badass Brand Saviour’- and now he wonders what his innocent question has started.

 

“Let me tell you a thing about Sansa Stark,” she begins, eyes blazing, and god, in this moment, he loves her more than he ever has before. 

 

“I mean if you watch Game of Thrones; a show full of murderers, rapists, people who flay others alive, stab pregnant women in the stomach, murder people at weddings, kill family members, zombies, a guy who bashes babies skulls on walls and rapes their mother and the character you hate the most is an eleven-twelve year old, who has lost her entire family and is living in a city where she cant trust a single person because they either want to fuck her or use her for their own political gain, then you need some serious help, is all I’m saying.”

 

“I wasn’t— 

 

“And what the hell is it with people glorifying Arya and her ninja skills while shitting on Sansa for being so damn smart and playing the game so well? Game of Thrones may be fictional, but it’s not so far removed from the real world. Girls don’t have to pit against other girls, and both of their strengths are important! Anya’s strengths would have gotten her killed in King’s Landing, which is exactly what happened to Ned and Catelyn and Robb and damn,” she pauses, catching a breath, “that’s a lot of Starks dead but my point exactly.”

 

She blows out another breath, taking a sip of coffee. “I will _fight_ you over Sansa Stark, is all I’m saying.”

 

He raises a hand in surrender, awed and impressed and maybe just a little afraid. 

 

“I’m more partial to Jon Snow for the Iron Throne, though if Jon really is Lyanna and Rhaegar’s son, a little cousin marriage seems par the course and we can both get what we want.”

 

She gives him a little smile then, eyes fleeting across his form. “Should’ve known it’d be Jon Snow for you, Jones.”

 

“What’s that mean?”

 

“You don’t think you’re like him? Loyal to a fault, and even when you’re winning and screwing the competition over, you go on about having _good form.”_  

 

“Media isn’t an industry for the faint hearted but that doesn’t mean you _have_ to be an asshole,” he says, thinking of rival firm Midas Media. 

 

“Yeah,” she agrees, raising her cup and clinking it against his.

 

 “To not being assholes,” he toasts.

 

“You two are the cutest thing ever, you know that right?” a voice cuts in, belonging to the very comely waitress with a pot of coffee. 

 

“What every man wants to hear, love, that he is _cute.”_

 

Emma laughs, catching the eye of the waitress with a grin, and asks, “Okay, what adjective do you want?” 

 

“I’d prefer dashing rapscallion.”

 

He is met with another set of laughs, and he’d very readily continue if he could keep making her smile. 

 

“Where’d you find this one anyway?” the waitress asks, and Killian spies her name tag (placed very prominently just where the uniform meets her bosom) that reads ‘Ruby’. 

 

Emma’s eyes meets his in amusement, a quick shared look that he takes to mean ‘ _Can you believe this lady?_ ’ because only in a small town would people be this nosy. They’ve been frequenting a coffee joint near the office for a while now, and Killian’s one hundred percent certain neither one of them knows their regular server’s name. 

 

“We work together,” Emma replies with a shrug, as if to say, _well, you know how that goes._

 

Ruby turns her eyes on him, a quick once over, “And how’d you get here, Mr. British?” 

 

There is maybe a handful of people still living that knows what made one Killian Jones sell off everything he’s ever owned - even his grandfather’s boat, to uproot his entire life and find a new one in America.

 

Emma, of course, knows. She’d found out the same day she’d kissed him, and he wonders sometimes, during his moments of self-loathing, if it was merely pity that drove her to him. 

 

“A plane, like everyone else, I reckon,” he answers the waitress, because deflection is something he has mastered. 

 

“Sassy, I like it.” 

 

He eyes her, “Yes, I suppose you would.” 

 

“Okay, thanks for the coffee, we got to go,” Emma says suddenly, standing, and his gaze turns to hers in surprise - she’s not fast enough and he catches it, the unbridled jealousy that drives her now. She’s got her arms crossed, standing hunched as she tries to exit the booth, and her look to the waitress is a barely concealed warning before she punctuates her exit with a (fake) smile. 

 

“Thanks,” she says again, much more calmer, digging out enough money for them both and a tip. She hands it to Ruby, and then, just as he’s got to his feet, she grabs his hand, interlaces their fingers, and pulls him towards the door. 

 

They walk in silence, hands still interlaced, and Killian’s content to let her lead, even if he suspects she has no idea where they’re going. 

 

“When we leave, you can go get her number, you know,” she says as they reach the end of the block, crossing over to the bench by the docks.

 

 “And why would I want to do that?”

 

“I saw you staring at her boobs. She’s hot, I get it.” 

 

He rolls his eyes, tugging as he stops their motion. “Don’t get me wrong, while she is indeed attractive, and I am in fact partial to breasts over bums, it is not her I desire.” 

 

“Oh?” 

 

“You really want to play this game, Swan?” 

 

She bites her lips, avoiding his eyes to stare at their joined hands. 

 

He’s about to deflect, diffuse the moment with a joke, when something shifts in her, and she raises her chin determinedly to fix him with a challenging gaze. 

 

“This stopped being a game some time ago, I think.”

 

“And when was that, Emma?”

 

Her gaze turns into a glare, annoyed that he’s forcing her to say it. He simply raises an eyebrow, because while he hasn’t explicitly stated his feelings towards her, he know she’s not obtuse; he wears his heart on his sleeve and love in his eyes, and it’s just who he is. 

 

“That night.” 

 

“Well, that’s descriptive.”

 

“Don’t be a jerk, Killian, you know which night.”

 

The ocean breeze is strong, and he takes a step closer under the pretence of hearing her better.

 

“You mean the one where you kissed me?”

 

He doesn’t mean to, honestly, but the words come out sultry and dark, the power of the memory strong enough to raise his blood pressure and remind him of what else could have happened that night if he hadn’t insisted on being an idiotic gentleman. 

 

When she visibly gulps, he chances another step forward, aware that he’s pushing the envelope. 

 

“You mean the one when you decided to drink more than you could carry, and decided on an impromptu walk in the park where you pushed me up _against a tree and kissed me within an inch of my life?_ That night? _”_

 

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” she says, voice slightly breathy as her eyes dart to his lips, “and I remember having _my_ back against the tree at one point…” she trails off, and he tries very hard not to hope at where this conversation is going, but the way she is looking at him… 

 

“I certainly wouldn’t complain at an encore, either,” he says, taking the last step forward so that all she needs to do is angle her head just right.

 

“ _Killian.”_

 

“Yes, _Emma?”_

 

Just like the last time, he is met with stony silence, and he recognises now it’s how she makes her decision (and then goes in on impulse anyway, because Emma doesn’t do well with thinking things through). 

 

She huffs, her exhalation mingling into his own, before she closes her eyes and pecks his cheek. 

 

_Oh._

 

She pulls away, and his hand releases hers, dropping to his side limply as she takes a step back and sits down heavily on the bench.

 

_Oh. Well then._  

 

Still, he must know. He must. 

 

“So, when you said this stopped being a game? You meant to put me out of my misery?” 

 

His directness must shock her, because her eyes widen and she looks up at him, hurt. Before she can say anything else (and possibly bruise his heart further), he speaks. 

 

“I apologise if I’ve put you in a bit of a fix, Swan, I get it, you know. I’m attractive and you’re attracted,” and it worries him when she doesn’t even roll her eyes at him in exasperation at his bravado, “but beyond that, this is all a bit too much for you and you’re afraid of how good it could be. I get that.”

 

When she opens her mouth to speak again, he cuts her off, “That said, I respect you as a person, as a bloody brilliant woman who is also my colleague, and this doesn’t have to be weird. You’re my friend, after all. Now, I won’t trouble you further, I’ll check on our car, which should be ready and we can be on our merry way, yeah?” 

 

And then, without waiting for a reply, he nods at her and strides away. 

 

“And was I ever going to get a chance to speak?” her voice carries, loud and clear and angry, making him stop. 

 

“Well… my mother once said when you don’t have anything nice to say…”

 

“Even if it’s the truth?” 

 

_Oh, don’t you know, Emma, the truth is what hurts the most_ , he thinks, turning back to her because she deserves his respect. 

 

“Have away at it, then,” he says, standing straight because he is a mature adult man that can handle rejection from the woman he loves. He absolutely can. 

 

“Killian,” she begins, and then falters, because whatever it is she wants to say she can’t seem to put into words.  

 

She sighs, and so does he, because why couldn’t she leave it be? 

 

It’s not like he’s unused to loneliness, he’s never been anyone’s first choice except his mother and Liam, and they had been punished for it. It’s not like he was expecting Emma Swan to be different - she’s as broken and sad and lonely as he is, and they understand each other and they could be so much more, but he also knows that maybe the sharp pieces of their hearts may end up cutting instead of healing, and while he’s willing to fight for her anyway, he’s not going to force his affections either. 

 

So why can’t she let it be? 

 

“Killian,” she tries again, “sit with me?” 

 

It’s a cloudy day though the sun should be high in the sky, and her request is a simple one. She needs time to gather her thoughts, and so he silently acquiesces her request.

 

“It’s just,” she turning to him, after a long beat of staring out at the roiling waves, “I don’t know how to say…” 

 

_You don’t say,_ he thinks, feeling off kilter at the whiplash of yes and no. 

 

She exhales loudly, in frustration at her inability to express herself (or at him, he’s not sure), and grabs his hand in between hers.   


“You mean too much,” is what she finally settles on. 

 

“To lose? So you’d rather not try?” 

 

“I was fucked up at 16. Literally, and my decisions haunt me, and no one has ever put me first, and I keep telling myself that distance is safer, but you, you bastard, you make me question that.”

 

“Emma, my love, please—

 

“And I’ve already let you see too much, Killian. And one day, you’re going to leave too, it’s going to be too much or not enough, and I don’t think I could…”

 

“I swear to you, I swear to you, Emma Swan, give me, give us a chance. I’ll prove it to you, I’ll spend my life proving it to you. Choose your own happiness, choose me if I’m a part of that.”

 

She laughs, sounding completely hollow, and with a sinking heart Killian realises that while every word of it is sincere, Emma doesn’t believe him. And maybe it has nothing to do with him, but it stings, that she’d think him capable of such insincerity. 

 

“You always have such pretty words, it’s what makes you such a good copywriter—

 

“Then let me show you,” he cuts in, because Emma Swan is a woman of action, and his words have no strength used alone.

 

And he means to ask her out, but she turns to look at him with such hope in her eyes, like she _wants_ to believe him but is scared to make that leap, and so Killian surges forward, lips capturing hers in a kiss. 

 

It’s the first time their lips have met in months, but they move as one, in complete simpatico with the other. He stands on no invitation, tongue darting into her open mouth, running down the length of her own as his hands trails down her arms, tugging her closer to him, hauling her into his lap when it’s still not enough. 

 

It’s like being set ablaze; the fire spreads and consumes him, racing through his veins where her skin sparks against his, where her tongue fights his own, where her fingers ravages his hair and her body grinds down against his rapidly engorging manhood. 

 

It’s only when her legs spreads around his hips, making his body dig back into the unyielding wooden bench does he remember that they’re on the verge of being fined for public indecency. 

 

“Emma,” he breathes against her lips, “oh Emma.”

 

“One hell of a show, pirate,” she tells him using his office nickname, as equally breathless, breasts heaving against his chest.

 

Her fingers continuously dance at the base of his neck, twirling at the hair there as they catch their breath, and he gives into to the moment to rest his head on the pillowy goodness of her chest. 

 

Truth be told, he’s not sure what to do. He’s coveted her, this, for so long, that he’s never thought about what he’d do if he actually got it. Now that he’s here, he wonders how to move forward without pushing her away, because tasting her sweetness only to lose it would be worse than never having had it at all - he’s sure of this. 

 

“What now?” she asks, mirroring his thought. 

 

“Well, we go check on the car,” he says, figuring to start at the simplest point, “and then we collect our belongings…and head to see monkey man.”

 

“Monk—You mean Walsh?”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“Are you seriously jealous of him?”

 

“I was.”

 

“And now?”

 

“Well, now that I’ve got you seated on my lap, I can’t say I’m eager to let you go.”

 

“So you’re still jealous, but you figure you’ve _won_ anyway,” she says dryly. 

 

“ _Have_ I won you over, Swan?”

 

“Maybe,” she says, just a little coy, but then her mouth turns down, seriousness creeping in, “but I’m warning you Killian. Whatever this is… it’s not going to be easy. I… I don’t know how to…” 

 

“Neither do I. We’ll figure it out, okay?” 

 

“Okay,” she sighs, resting her cheek on his head.

 


	3. Start.

They walk hand in hand down the street, the ocean spring breeze giving them an excuse to be as close as possible (not that they need excuses now, he thinks in gleeful disbelief), when the sheriff car pulls up beside them. 

 

Graham rolls down the window, eyeing Emma appreciatively before nodding at Killian. 

 

“Your car is ready, let me drive you there.”

 

“No worries mate, we were just on the way there. Enjoying the view.”

 

He doesn’t need to look to know that Emma is rolling her eyes at him. 

 

“There’s something you should know,” Graham says, nodding his head to the back of the car, and for a second Killian wonders if this is one of those small towns where the sheriff is absolutely bonkers, is about to kidnap his girlfriend and murder him in the back of the woods all because he covets her like a psychopath. After all, since when is a sheriff the taxi service?

 

“What?” Emma asks, cutting through the bullshit and peering suspiciously at the sheriff, and god, he loves her. 

 

Graham huffs, “Get in the car and I’ll tell you before I drop you off at Tillman’s.”

 

Emma turns to Killian, who shrugs - he’s confident that if the man tries anything that both he and Emma can take him down, so he leaves the decision to her. 

 

“Okay, but whatever it is better be worth our time,” Emma warns, moving to the door. Killian reaches around her, opening it with a smirk as he ushers her in with a whispered “Ladies first.”

 

“You’re such a nerd.”

 

“Gentleman.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“You don’t have to pretend, you know” Graham says, eyeing them from the rear view mirror. 

 

“Come again, mate?” 

 

“That’s the thing I wanted to tell you,” the sheriff says as he pulls away from the curb, “that _rule_ at Granny’s?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Doesn’t exist. She just… Storybrooke hardly gets any visitors… so she finds ways to entertain herself.”

 

“And the whole town is in on it?” Emma asks in disbelief.

 

“Yes, we’ve got a running bet.”

 

“On what?” he asks the man, who is paying more attention to his beautiful blonde mate than he is on the road.

 

“Well, whether this charade will actually result in you getting together. There’s a 20 percent chance of that happening, based on experience.”

 

“And where is your bet, mate?”

 

“You’re just friends,” Graham says, and Killian almost laughs at how transparent it is.

 

“How much did you bet?” Emma interjects, her hand tracing idle circles on his thigh.

 

Killian sees Graham’s eyes dart nervously to him before steeling himself and saying, “20, _and_ that I’d get your number at the end of it.”

_Idiot_ , Killian thinks, watching from the corner of his eye as Emma frowns. Graham clearly doesn’t have a good read on the kind of person she is if he thinks that courting her as if she’s a prize to be won will flatter her. 

 

_“_ Who placed high bets for it to happen?” she asks, and though he’d very much like flip Graham off, he has a feeling Emma’s building up towards it. 

 

Graham shrugs, turning into Tillman’s Garage. “Ruby, Granny and Belle the librarian, though Belle always bets for the happy endings so I guess that doesn’t count.”

 

“Huh,” Emma says, eyes twinkling when she catches his, “do you hear that Killian, looks like Graham owes those lovely ladies a good amount of money.”

 

Killian has been watching the other man closely, relishing in this, and sees the moment Graham understands, eyes widening as it darts between the two of them, as if only now seeing her fingers drumming against his thigh and his hand secured over her shoulder, bodies pressed closed together despite the ample space.

 

“Wait, you’re actually really married?”

 

“Nop,” Emma laughs, “but who knows what the future holds?”

 

Killian is pretty sure he’s grinning like a smug bastard, even though his heart pounds rapidly at her implication. 

 

Because truly, he may not know what the future holds, but he sure as hell will be holding her while they figure it out. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Leave a comment and tell me what you thought. :D


End file.
